Faith whooped and hugged Flora. Both had worn flowery prints but they couldn’t have appeared more different. Faith’s dress fit her like a glove. Flora’s sparkled with beading. Flora bussed her sister’s cheek, and Faith trotted up the steps to the stage.
“Thank you, thank you,” she gushed into the microphone, even though the judge hadn’t ceded it to her. “I am beyond words.”
“Second place,” the judge said, regaining command, “goes to Keller Landry.”
Katie whistled using two fingers. Eleanor threw her arms around Keller. Then Katie crouched beside their daughter and helped her clap her hands for Daddy. Taking the steps two at a time, Keller made the stage in three strides. He stood beside Faith, beaming. No speech. He didn’t even attempt it.
“And the first-place prize goes to . . .” The judge turned pale. Mustering courage, he forced a smile and announced, “Quade.” He regarded his fellow judges. “Of course, these are unusual circumstances. We will have to figure out how to award the prize posthumously.”
Rhett flew to my side, skidding on his heels. “I’m sorry I’m late, but I heard everything, and I’m sorry you didn’t win, but in my eyes—”
I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him heartily. “You are all the prize I need.”
“Does anyone know how to contact his family?” the judge asked, rotating his head right and left.
Fighting tears of grief, Yardley raised her hand. Wayne made a move toward the stage. Yardley waved him off. “May I, sir?” she asked the judge, gesturing to the microphone. He nodded for her to take the lead. “Ladies and gentlemen—” Her voice cracked. She raised her chin. “I know that Quade would have been so proud to have won this prestigious award, and I will do all I can to make sure that his art and his memory are respected and treasured going forward.”
The head judge resumed his place behind the microphone. “Thank you all for joining us in this celebration. Look for next year’s flyers to feature Quade’s unique and fabulous work. If you’ll now focus on the vintners’ competition results on the East Stage.”
A photographer jogged onto the South Stage and shouted for the winners to convene. Covertly, Naomi skirted the group and fled down the stairs.
As if he’d been hiding, lying in wait, Christopher George emerged through a break in the crowd and gripped her elbow. He pulled her behind the easels.
“Rhett!” I hurried after them, wishing Cinnamon hadn’t gone back to the precinct.
Rhett kept pace. “I’m with you.”
“All I want to do is talk,” Christopher rasped.
“Let me go,” Naomi cried.
Rhett and I rounded the easels.
“Your face,” Christopher said, reaching out to touch.
Naomi recoiled and wrenched free. She dashed off.
“What happened?” Her husband pursued her.
“I was attacked.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know. You? It had to be you.”
“Me? Never!”
“Where were you at dawn yesterday?” she demanded.
“I had a Zoom call breakfast. Three of my board members can vouch for my whereabouts. C’mon, sweetheart. I want you back, Nancy.”
“The name is Naomi.”
“Whatever you call yourself, you’re still my wife. I want to woo you, but you won’t give me the time of day.”
“Woo me?” She whirled around. “What are you talking about, woo me? You’ve been stalking me.”
“C’mon, Nancy, I want answers. Is Nina my daughter? Tell me.” Christopher grabbed her arms and shook her. Naomi’s head lolled right and left.
“Christopher, don’t!” I yelled.
“Tell me,” he repeated.
Naomi glared at him. “No!”
Christopher raised his hand as if preparing to slap her.
Rhett and I both yelled, “Christopher, stop!”
We needn’t have. Naomi gripped his wrist and twisted it. Hard.
He yelped, pulled free, and clasped his nearly offending hand with the other. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I only meant to scare you. I’d never hit you.”
Rhett ran at Christopher, shoved him away from Naomi, and held him at bay. Christopher threw up both hands, agreeing to the distance.
“He killed him,” Naomi sobbed. “He killed Quade.”
“No, I didn’t,” Christopher protested.
“Christopher,” I said, trying to divert his attention. “You have a flimsy alibi for the night Quade was murdered. You say you were in your room at the inn with no room service, no witnesses, watching CNN.”
“I was.”
“Being able to recount the coverage is weak. You could have watched a recap. It would have been easy for you to sneak out.”
“I didn’t—”
“Did you kill him because you thought Naomi was in love with him? Or because you thought he was the girl’s father? Or did you kill him because he fooled you with his forgeries?” I pressed.
He gawked. “What forgeries?”
“I was in Quade’s place. I saw the David Smith forgeries. I told the police about them. You and Quade communicated via email.”
“Not about any forgeries.”
“The police have a paper trail,” I lied, not willing to reveal I knew they’d been erased from his cloud.
“I . . . I wrote him about Nancy. I’d seen him pursuing her. I . . .” He jammed his lips together.
Naomi’s gaze tracked from me to Christopher and back again. “You did do it, didn’t you? You were jealous and you killed him.”
“No. I do have an alibi. But not the one I told the police.” Christopher glanced helplessly in Naomi’s direction and then to Rhett and me. “I lied because I followed Nancy home that night.”
“Naomi,” she muttered.
“I didn’t tell the police,” he went on, “because I didn’t want it getting back to . . . Naomi . . . that I went there.”
Naomi thrust out a hand. “Told you. Stalking.”
“No. I wanted to approach you. I wanted to knock on the door”—he splayed his hands—“and ask you to start over. To go on a date. But then the door opened and I froze. And you sneaked out.”
Naomi’s eyes squinted with confusion. “I didn’t sneak out. What are you accusing me of?”
“You went around the side of the house, and you didn’t come back.”
“What time was this?” she demanded, fisting her hands on her hips.
“At a quarter to ten.”
The ME had fixed the time of Quade’s death between ten and eleven.
“For Pete’s sake, Chris.” She threw up both hands. “I went out back to have a cigarette. I don’t smoke in the house. Not around Nina.”
Christopher gazed at me. “I didn’t tell the police because I was afraid you were the killer.”
“Me?” Naomi clapped a hand to her chest.
“That guy Quade kept pursuing you. He threatened you last week.”
She groaned. “You really have been spying on me. How long have you been in town?”
“Did you kill him?” Christopher asked.
“Get real!” she cried. “No, I didn’t kill him. I had a cigarette, and I slipped into the house through the back door.”
“Why didn’t you go out through the back door?” I asked.
“I keep the cigarettes in my purse, which was on the table by the front door.”
Christopher said, “You didn’t turn off the lights.”
Naomi glowered. “If you’d been paying attention, you’d have realized that I never do. I sleep with the lights on. Because . . .” She gasped for breath. “Because of you!” She folded her arms protectively over her chest and stamped her foot.
“Both of you need to tell Chief Pritchett,” I said.
“Yes, fine,” Naomi said testily, and zeroed in on her husband. “Listen to my words, Christopher George. Leave me alone. I am never coming back. Ever. Goodbye.” She marched through the break between two bo
oths, leaving Christopher with me and Rhett.
Christopher hung his head. “I’ll contact the police,” he whispered.
As he left, I eyed Rhett. “What do you think?”
“They sort of corroborated each other’s alibis.”
“Except I’ve never seen Naomi smoke.”
Chapter 21
Bailey raced up to us. My father and Lola trailed her. “What was that all about?” She gestured to Christopher’s retreating figure.
I explained.
When I finished, Rhett kissed my cheek and apologized because he had to leave for work. I whispered in his ear, “Thanks for being here.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it. You are fearless, I’ll give you that.”
I texted Cinnamon and told her to expect a visit from Naomi Genet as well as Christopher George. She texted back, Why?
I responded: I’ll let them tell you.
“I think you need to have a glass of wine,” Bailey said, looping her hand around my elbow. “This way to the finals. Afterward, we’ll grab a taste of something. There’s a venue featuring all the finalists’ wines right next door.”
Dad and Lola begged off. She, like Rhett, had to go to work, and Dad had agreed to meet a builder at the hardware store.
“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered in my ear before leaving. “Your mother would be, too.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
The East Stage had been set like the South Stage, with a banner strung across the front hyping the finals, although its table held three silver grape-cluster trophies. A female judge in a sleek blue dress approached the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?”
Hannah, in typical black, stood to the right of the stairs with six other vintners. Her husband Alan Baldini, gawky and unmuscular, was standing, hands in jeans pockets, about three feet away. Even in profile, I could tell he was beaming. Near Alan, Destiny was chatting with a leggy blonde, seemingly about their matching pink-and-black halter dresses. They had to be chilly and mutually miffed at whomever had sold them the distinctive dresses. Destiny’s face looked pretty good, considering. Like Naomi, she’d done the best she could to cover her bruise with makeup.
The judge explained the rules of the competition and the backgrounds of the finalists. Hannah’s vineyard was the largest local winery. Two of the finalists were the small-batch wineries Nouveau and Vast Horizon. The other three were well-known vintners from Napa, Sonoma, and Mendocino.
“Go, Hannah!” Bailey shouted.
I elbowed her to hush. She chuckled. Alan wheeled around and, seeing us, waved. I waved back.
The presentations began. The judge asked the finalists to join her on stage. Hannah’s winery won third place, Nouveau won second, and the Napa Valley vintner won first place.
As Hannah was cheered by the others, I heard a woman call my name.
“Jenna, there you are.” Yardley and her husband Wayne drew near. Her face was tearstained, her lower lip quivering as she tried to maintain a positive façade. “I was hoping to see you before I headed back to the institute. I got waylaid after the presentations. There was so much to explain to the judges about my relationship to Quade.”
“Congratulations on his behalf.” I hesitated. “I know my words sound hollow, but knowing his art will live on through the festival should give you a smidgen of solace.”
“Sadly,” she said, “due to the issue with the forgeries and his impending dubious reputation, I’ve told the judging panel to withdraw his entry. Keller will be declared the official winner.”
Wayne slung a supportive arm around his wife.
“By the way, Jenna,” Yardley went on, “you did such a lovely job with your art. I hope you’re very proud.”
“I am.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Bailey joshed.
“One other thing,” Yardley added. “Sienna—”
Wayne shook his head, cautioning her.
“But I have to tell Jenna, sweetheart,” Yardley protested. “She’s been so close to this investigation.”
“Go on then.” Wayne motioned for her to continue.
“You won’t believe what Sienna told me minutes ago,” Yardley said.
“That she killed Quade?” I asked.
“What? Heavens, no.” Yardley batted the air. “She said an employee at the inn, a housekeeper who was home sick for five days, told Sienna less than an hour ago that she saw Destiny outside Quade’s cabana on Sunday morning. The woman had been so sick, she hadn’t heard the news. She hadn’t realized a murder had occurred.”
“Sunday means nothing as far as the murder is concerned, time-wise,” I murmured as I caught sight of Destiny hugging Hannah.
Yardley continued. “I don’t know Destiny well, and I can’t imagine she’s guilty of murder, but Sienna said there would have been no reason for her to have been at the inn. No wine tours were scheduled. Why was she there?”
“She was in love with Quade.”
“Ahh.” Sadness mixed with regret flashed in Yardley’s eyes. “Loving without being loved in return is a bitter pill to swallow.”
“Tell me about it,” Bailey groused.
Yardley clasped her husband’s elbow. “It took me five years to win Wayne’s heart. I shed a lot of tears in those sixty months.” She turned her attention to me. “Thank you for all your support.”
“My pleasure.” I smiled. “Come by the shop soon. We’ll go to the Nook for tea.”
“I’d like that.”
As Wayne guided Yardley away, I thought about Destiny. Why had she gone to the inn? Why linger outside Quade’s room? Had she really wanted to talk to him or to plan his murder?
“What’re you thinking?” Bailey asked.
“I was—”
“Hi, Jenna.” Hannah, holding her husband’s elbow, strolled toward us with her third-place trophy in hand.
“Congrats!” I cried.
“Yes, way to go!” Bailey hooted.
Hannah broke free of Alan and I hugged her.
“I can’t believe it,” she gushed. “I was certain the Sonoma vintner would beat me. I knew the first two entries were better. The pinot from Nouveau is something special. The winemaker has an exquisite sense of timing for harvesting and providing the exact amount of water for each crop. I’m jealous.”
Alan caressed her arm. “Don’t be jealous. Be inspired.”
Hannah smiled adoringly at him. ‘“Be inspired.’ I love that.”
“Hey, Hannah,” I said, “I have a question. About Destiny. Sienna Brown said one of the inn’s housekeepers saw her loitering outside Quade’s cabana on Sunday morning.”
Bailey’s eyes widened. “Do you think she was staking out the place?”
Hannah scoffed. “To plan a murder? No way. She was in love with him. Not to mention, the housekeeper has to be wrong. Destiny was home all day Sunday. I happen to know because I was in touch with her. Via text messages.”
Alan bobbed his head. “Constantly.”
“She could text from anywhere,” I said patiently.
Hannah rolled her eyes and tucked the trophy under one arm so she could gesture with the other. “I know that, but there were a few texts she didn’t respond to. In the hills where she lives, cell reception can be bad, and driving to town can make it even worse. So, desperate to know if she was in the vicinity because I needed her to pick up a few items for Monday evening’s soiree, I pinged her cell phone. The locator showed she was at home. Plus, she was posting online on Facebook at the time.”
Facebook posts could be scheduled, I theorized and quickly chided myself. Why was I doing my best to come up with an answer to convict Destiny of all people?
“How about following the event Tuesday night? Do you know where she went after you two packed up?”
“Home. To do PR. She never stops. You and I both know how that goes.” Hannah squeezed my arm. “Hey, Alan and a few of our friends and I are going out to celebrate. Do you two want to jo
in us?”
“Can’t,” I said. “Work and then family dinner.”
“Your loss,” Alan kidded. “I’m paying.”
As they walked away in a loving embrace, Bailey pointed at my face. “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”
“Even if Hannah’s wrong and Destiny had been seen . . . it wouldn’t make her guilty. Like I said, she was in love with Quade. Hanging around the cabana, hoping to catch a conversation with him would be logical.”
“Do you think Sienna is kicking up dirt to throw suspicion from herself?”
“Good thought.” I texted Cinnamon a recap.
Cinnamon responded in less than ten seconds. Jenna, what did I tell you?
I texted: Butt out. Got it. But I can’t help it if people talk to me.
She wrote back: Yes you can. Put your fingers in your ears. She added a few sassy emojis.
It was my turn to blow a raspberry.
• • •
By the time I got back to the shop—I’d decided to pass on wine tasting with Bailey—I was starving, so I breezed into the café to beg Katie to make me one of her renowned grilled cheese and spicy tomato sandwiches. Simply thinking about the serrano pepper sauce she added made me salivate. However, I drew up short when I spotted Z.Z., Egan, and Jake at the first table beyond the hostess’s station. Z.Z. was doing the talking. Jake was chowing down on a fish burger. Egan was digging in a backpack that he’d set on his lap.
Seeing the backpack, I flashed on my conversation with Bailey and Katie at Palette about Egan and the guy on the Pier, and felt my cheeks warm, embarrassed by the trajectory my curious mind had followed that night.
He caught sight of me and frowned. “What?” he said aloud.
Z.Z. and Jake stopped what they were doing and glanced in my direction.
I peeked over my shoulder, wondering if Egan was addressing someone behind me. No one was there. I turned back and put a hand to my chest. “Are you talking to me?”
He beckoned me with a terse gesture.
I skirted the hostess’s station and proceeded to the table. “Is something wrong with your meal?”
Egan said, “You were staring at me.”
“No, I—”
“Yeah, you were. Like you didn’t trust me. What’s up?”
Wining and Dying Page 19